


Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Comfort, Cooking, Cooking is sexy, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Food, Friends to Lovers, JUST KISS ALREADY, John likes old school music, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sensual Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock likes to watch John cook, Sick Sherlock, food glorious food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John cooks five dinners that slowly reveal their hunger for each other, Sherlock and John finally share a first kiss.</p><p>  <i>Coming home to find John busy in the kitchen, a strong wave of domesticity had washed over Sherlock, stirring up something unexpected, something he hadn't quite known he craved until now. But it was more than companionship he was responding to, it was... what, exactly?</i></p><p>  <i>Intimacy. That was the word he was fumbling for. It felt intimate to walk into their home, water bubbling, spoon circling, fingers mounding, scooping, cradling food.</i></p><p>(Inspired by Sherlock’s line about John from The Sign of Three: “And he can cook… Does a thing … with peas…”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [О том, как Джон пять раз готовил что-то с горохом и об одном первом поцелуе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10515348) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss | 五顿“有豆子的东西”和一个吻](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554149) by [WinterSpinach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSpinach/pseuds/WinterSpinach)



**1**

Why? Why, for the love of God, were there 10 bags of frozen peas jammed into the freezer? Sherlock was supposed to do the shopping for the week, and _this_ is what he had come back with?

With a sinking feeling, John shut the freezer door and opened the refrigerator, hoping against hope that he would find something more enticing to eat. A limp head of lettuce, a bright yellow lemon, and a bottle of ketchup. An expired carton of eggs. A wedge of Parmesan.

John closed the stainless steel door, lowered his head, his fist still clutching the handle, and he took a deep breath. "Sherlock." He spoke in statements, trying to keep his voice even. "Why so many peas."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, his expression vaguely annoyed. "To determine the decomposition rate of vegetative matter under a specific type of clay soil -- never mind. I'm not going to do it now." He flicked his wrist dismissively toward John. "Don't worry. They were on sale..." He turned back to his screen.

John sighed. Bloody stupid peas. He began rummaging through the cupboards. A tin of beans. A box of vegetable broth. Stale biscuits. Rice. Arborio rice, to be precise.

Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He'd bought the rice, lemon, and cheese a week ago, intending to make dinner for the new receptionist at the surgery. They'd eaten lunch together several times, enjoyed a drink after work. John had invited her over for dinner on a night he thought Sherlock would not be there.

He had been there. It was awful. Sherlock was in rare form -- rude, curt, insulting. She left before John had even uncorked the bottle of white wine he'd bought for the occasion.

John swept the wine bottle into his hand now, jammed the corkscrew into the top, pulled the cork out with a vicious pop.

Sherlock looked up at the sound, but John ignored him, pouring out a glass for himself. So. He would make the risotto now. With lemon. And sodding peas.

Sherlock watched John from the corner of his eye as he rummaged out pots and pans, a ladle and wooden spoon, the grater from some deep corner of a cupboard. As the broth heated on the stove, John measured out the rice and grated lemon zest into a small bowl. He then sliced the lemon in half. He rinsed and dried the grater, filled another small bowl with frozen peas, leaving them on the table to thaw.

John took a sip of wine, scrolled through his phone. Soon the strains of an Italian aria floated from the kitchen, still resonant despite the phone’s small speaker.

John turned back to the stove, his feet in faded black socks quiet against the kitchen floor. He added a knob of butter to a deep pan, let it melt, then stirred in the arborio. He cracked in some fresh pepper, added a pinch of an herb. Thyme, maybe.

After another minute he squeezed in the juice of half a lemon, poured a slug of white wine into the pan directly from the bottle. He stirred some more.

Sherlock kept watching, intrigued. John felt eyes on him, turned to look at Sherlock.

"Sorry -- is the music bothering you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's fine."

"My mother always cooked with music on. I suppose I picked that up from her." John stirred the rice, letting it absorb all the liquid.

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa. "You never cook."

"But I _can_ cook," John pointed out, dipping out a ladle of broth and easing it into the pan. He stirred the rice.

The aroma of warm butter and broth and lemon drifted over to Sherlock. His mouth watered involuntarily. He stood up, casually walked to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine. He stood behind John, watching over his shoulder as he ladled more broth into the pan. Stirring, always stirring.

John glanced at Sherlock. "It’s risotto."

"I gathered that." Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Is this all because of the peas?"

John took a breath, started to say something about not letting things go to waste, then stopped. He settled for a simple "Yes." He stirred, and they both watched the liquid gradually disappear into the grain.

"This was supposed to be for my dinner with Laura," John added eventually.

"Who?"

"Laura from work. You scared her away, as usual."

Sherlock plucked a half-frozen pea from the bowl, slipped it into his mouth. "Blonde?"

"Brunette." Another spoonful of broth went into the pan. "And now, instead of a romantic dinner with Laura, I'm here on a Friday night with you."

Sherlock took a sip of wine. "Is that so bad?" he asked, truly wondering if it was.

John shook his head, laughing with a bit of resignation, marveling at Sherlock's obtuseness. "It's... fine." He stirred, and they watched the rice ever-so-slowly release its starch. "At least make yourself useful, will you? Grate some cheese onto a plate. I've got to keep stirring."

Ten minutes later, the rice had transformed into a creamy texture. John added the peas, lemon zest, and grated Parmesan, mixed them in, let them heat through and meld into the rice. He dished out two generous servings and they sat down at the kitchen table across from one another.

John topped off their glasses with wine. "Well… bon appetit," John said, suddenly feeling awkward, thinking this felt strangely similar to a date.

Sherlock took a bite, assessed the silky salty richness of the rice, the fresh green burst of the peas, the yellow tang of the lemon zest. “This is really quite good,” he pronounced, taking another bite. “I’m rather impressed.”

John looked down at his plate and smiled. Maybe this would be a nice evening, after all.

 

**2**

The next Friday night, Sherlock was greeted with the scent of shallots simmering in butter as he climbed the stairs to the flat. Through the open door he could see John standing stocking-footed in the kitchen again, sleeves pushed back, dropping a handful of dry pasta into a pot of rapidly boiling water. There was music again, jazz. Chet Baker.

John looked up as Sherlock removed his coat and scarf. “Hey,” John said.

“Hey.” Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, cautious. “Are you having someone over?”

John glanced at him as he turned back to the table. “What? Oh, no. Just making some dinner. Fettuccine with prosciutto and peas, if you want some. Cream sauce. Bit of cracked pepper, Parmesan on top.”

“That would be… good.” Sherlock stood watching as John deftly chopped the prosciutto on a cutting board, the knife blade glinting in the light. John's hair gleamed, too, as he moved. Sherlock liked this, watching John chop and slice and stir. He had fine hands for it. Surgical precision balanced with a creative flair.

John turned back to the stove, peeked at the pasta roiling in the water, his shoulder blades briefly outlined against his white shirt as he stood on tiptoe and leaned toward the pot.

Sherlock couldn't move his eyes away. Had he ever properly appreciated the width of John's shoulders? The strong line of his jaw from this angle? The boiling water was heating the room, making Sherlock warm. “I’ll just… pop out and get a bottle of wine, shall I?”

“Sure. But make it quick -- this’ll be done in 10 minutes.”

Sherlock grabbed his coat and whisked down the stairs, glad to cool his flushed face in the evening air. Coming home to find John busy in the kitchen, a strong wave of domesticity had washed over him, stirring up something unexpected, something he hadn't quite known he craved until now. But it was more than companionship he was responding to, it was... what, exactly?

Intimacy. That was the word he was fumbling for. It felt intimate to walk into their home, water bubbling, spoon circling, fingers mounding, scooping, cradling food.

They had lived together for more than a year, growing used to each other's habits, good and bad. The way John folded his shirts before putting them away. The way John muttered at the news on the telly. How he lined up his shoes by the door, marked his place with a proper bookmark, never folding down the corner of the page.

He had seen John eat, drink, nap, shave, pee (the bathroom door was admittedly quite transparent), read, and type, but he had never seen John cook quite with this detail or complexity before. It made the ordinary -- here Sherlock grasped for the right word again -- intricate. Sensual.

Just now, by the stove, Sherlock had had the sudden urge to stand close behind John, press into his back, lean down, let his mouth hover over his neck as the steam clouded around them --

Wine. Must get the wine. Quickly. Something crisp and white. Something John would like.

 

**3**

It was a late Sunday afternoon and cold winter rain lashed at the windows. John had the day off and hadn't seen Sherlock since that morning when he'd left the flat.

John now puttered in the kitchen, cleaning a few dishes, wiping them dry, putting them back in their proper places. A chicken was roasting in the oven, onions and carrots, lemon and thyme nestled inside. He would do the mashed potatoes and peas next.

He didn't know why he was cooking so much lately. To use up the damned peas, of course, but he supposed it was also the shorter days, the cold weather that made a cozy kitchen appealing. He enjoyed it, too, the colors and scents and textures of cooking, the satisfaction of crafting something by hand. It was relaxing after a long day at work or helping Sherlock with a case.

Sherlock. Where was he, anyway? John glanced at the time, calculating how long it would take to finish preparing everything. Well, he thought while searching through his music to find some Nina Simone, Sherlock would be sorry to miss this. He wasn't going to wait for him.

 

*********

"You didn't have to wait for me," Sherlock said, sliding into his seat across the table from John.

"I didn't. Not long, anyway." John was fibbing. He'd waited 30 minutes, fretted about the chicken getting too dry. But it had turned out a lovely golden brown, moist, flavorful. The potatoes were fluffy, buttery. The ubiquitous peas were sprinkled with fresh mint. A meal like this really was best shared.

Sherlock took in the small feast before him. "How did you learn to do this?"

John shrugged. "My mum taught us the basics. And I worked in a restaurant the summer before going to uni. Didn't last long there, although I learned a few tricks." He forked up a bite of potatoes. "Didn't you ever learn to cook?"

"Not really. Food's never been all that important to me. It just sort of... appears."

John laughed. "Must be nice." He took a sip of wine that Sherlock had brought home a few days ago. A Pinot Noir. "No wonder you were so thin when I first met you."

"Tea and toast and cigarettes sustained me just fine for years."

"Right. Clearly a well-rounded diet," John replied sarcastically. He pointed at Sherlock with his knife. "Eat your peas."

Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk. They ate without talking for several minutes, Nina Simone's rich voice filling the room.

Sherlock fidgeted with his glass, a new thought crossing his mind. "You don't have to do this," he finally said, feeling that he might somehow be taking advantage of John's generosity.

John met his eyes across the table. "I don't mind."

He really didn't mind. He liked sitting here, the two of them, not rushing, just at home together. He enjoyed it, being with Sherlock, sparring with him, watching his expressive eyes, the slow smile that crept across his face that made him feel like the most important person in the world. He coveted those moments, would chase and fight and shoot and argue and cook and leave all the Lauras and Sarahs behind for those unguarded grins from Sherlock.

But Sherlock... Who knew what he felt about such things? Maybe nothing. Maybe something, somewhere, deep down in the hidden heat of his veins.

Their gazes held a beat longer than necessary, and longer still as the music wound around them. Sherlock's hair was still a bit damp from the rain, curling lavishly at the crown of his head. John was seized with the urge to tangle his fingers in the dark coils, imagined drawing that lush mouth to his own...

 _I put a spell on you_  
_Because you're mine_  
_You're mine_

Sherlock looked away first. Or maybe John did.

"The mint," Sherlock offered distractedly, still looking down, looking for something to say. "I like it."

John relaxed his grip on his fork and remembered to breathe. "I do, too."

 

**4**

Two days later Sherlock's throat was sore and raw and his voice went hoarse. He sat on his chair in his blue dressing gown, knees hugged to his chest, looking miserable.

John passed by. "Sure I can't get you something?"

Sherlock shook his head, sniffed, then sighed.

"Go lie down," John suggested. "Get some rest."

"No," Sherlock croaked. He sniffed, sighed again. After five more minutes, he gave up and shuffled back to his room, burying himself under the covers. It hurt to swallow. His eyes ached. He drifted to sleep, too uncomfortable to stay awake.

When he woke, something savory filled the air, the scent detectable even through his stuffy nose. He lifted his head just as John peeked through the crack of the door.

"Awake?" John asked as he pushed the door open wider with his shoulder, a mug of tea in one hand, a bowl in the other.

Sherlock pulled himself up to a sitting position, his back against the headboard.

"Made some chicken soup from the leftovers. It'll help your throat." John handed him the bowl and set the mug on the bedside table.

Sherlock peered into the bowl. "Peas."

"Of course there's peas in it. We've got bags and bags left."

Sherlock lifted the spoon to his mouth, cringing at the initial sting of the salty broth. The second spoonful was easier, the warm liquid sliding down in a shallow swallow. The third was almost soothing as it went down, coating the back and sides of his throat.

John looked on approvingly. He bent down slightly, his hand going to Sherlock's forehead to test the temperature of his skin. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut under the touch. John's hand felt so cool.

"Still running a low fever," John announced. "Keep drinking liquids and rest. I'll get you some paracetamol. Be right back." He turned to leave.

"John, wait."

Sherlock's voice was raspy, lower than normal, deep enough to send a shiver of aural pleasure up John's spine. He turned back.

Sherlock gazed up at him, his cheeks flushed, eyes fever-bright, looking attractively rumpled and a tiny bit helpless in the big bed.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

John gazed back at him. "Glad to help. Anytime." He held the gaze a moment longer, then shook himself. "So, I'll just go get the..." He forgot what he was going to do.

"Paracetamol."

"Right, that." He nearly stumbled into the door frame as he left the bedroom.

 

**5**

Spices. The heady scent of so many bright and earthy spices swirled down the stairs and into the foyer that Sherlock had to stop and inhale again in appreciation. His cold was gone, his throat and nose back to normal, only his voice still a little rough and low.

He climbed the stairs, hung his coat on the peg behind the door, and pried off his shoes. John glanced up with a quick smile before turning back to the simmering pot. “Vegetable curry tonight,” he said. “With peas, of course.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth crooked up. He shrugged off his suit jacket and flung it over the chair in his bedroom. When he walked back into the kitchen, there was already a steaming bowl of curry and rice and a cold bottle of beer waiting at his usual place at the table.

“So,” John began, digging into his food. “Anything interesting in your inbox?”

Sherlock breathed in a waft of cumin, coconut milk, chiles, and turmeric. “Hm?” He asked distractedly.

“Cases. Anything look promising? It's been awhile since there's been a good one.”

“Um, no, nothing above a four.” Sherlock was not exactly telling the truth. He'd been picking easy cases on purpose lately, mostly business and family matters that could be wrapped up in a timely manner and have him home in time for dinner when he knew John would be cooking. He would choose something more interesting soon. But this -- he took a bite, letting the capsaicin heat burn his tongue and flush his cheeks -- was intriguing enough at the moment.

They ate, talking about the day, John telling a story about a difficult patient with an embarrassing itch, the conversation soon descending into juvenile jokes and snorts of laughter about patients’ humiliating health problems. A second round of beer was popped open, Sherlock divulging the salacious details of a family dispute that involved old money, multiple affairs, an impending ugly divorce, and a handsome gardener.

“You mean the wife walked in on them in the garden shed?” John was giggling in that infectious way that made Sherlock grin.

“Bent right over the potting bench.”

“Oh, God,” John sighed, still giggling, pressing the beer bottle against his forehead to cool his brow, “I suppose I should feel guilty laughing about other people's secrets.”

“The affairs won't be a secret much longer,” Sherlock pointed out, taking a long drink, his mouth burning pleasantly. “The papers will find out soon enough.”

“The truth will out,” John quoted philosophically, leaning back in his chair. He stretched and their knees bumped, sending a jolt of unexpected electricity up their legs. They could have pulled back, mumbled an apology, moved on to the next subject. But they didn’t. Their legs lingered, making the lightest contact, a thin, hot current betraying their own secrets.

Their eyes locked across the table, faces glowing, endorphins simmering from the spicy heat and alcohol. The music that had been playing low in the background now became audible. Something old school again, strings building, Etta James soulfully belting out the lyrics.

 _At last, my love has come along_  
_My lonely days are over_

Sherlock looked down, his thumb circling uncertainly over the rim of the bottle. John saw the hesitation and gently withdrew his leg. He pushed back from the table, trying not to feel disappointed.

“I’ll just... clean up…” John stood and began gathering dishes, turning to fuss with the sink, his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up suddenly, bereft at the loss of contact. He stood as well, clumsily gathering the empty bottles in one hand, mentally kicking himself for letting the moment pass.

He walked blindly toward the sink to place the bottles on the counter. He reached out, setting the glass containers down when John suddenly turned, not seeing him, causing them to collide chest to chest. The bottles rattled against each other, nearly falling over.

“Oh,” John simply said, startled to find himself against the purple shirt that he’d noticed far too often, engrossed by the buttons straining over flexing muscles. And damn if Sherlock didn’t smell amazing, the fragrance of expensive cologne and hair product so close to him, heated by the visibly beating pulse in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock looked down at John's hair, silvery brown wisps he wanted to smooth back from his forehead, the curve of nose and chin he never tired of studying, the long eyelashes over deep blue eyes that now flicked questioningly up to him.

The music had stopped, the room filled with the sound of their own breathing, a siren wailing somewhere in the distance, the purr of traffic from the street below. Sherlock could think of nothing clever to say, no quip to recenter this precarious sense of tipping past a certain point.

And so he didn't speak. He stopped hesitating, and tipped.

He bent his neck slowly, his mouth drawn toward John's, sensitive nerves responding to the warmth radiating from skin, mere seconds stretching into endless anticipation, a frisson of fear, the tightly wound tension of pent up desire shimmering in the small space separating their lips.

John's left hand seemed to rise on its own, fingertips cradling Sherlock's jaw, his thumb caressing once over Sherlock’s bottom lip, stopping beneath the fleshy middle, tilting Sherlock's chin down a fraction and to the side.

Sherlock's heart hammered, his body hypnotized under John's heavy lidded gaze, and he closed his eyes against the too intense moment just before their lips touched in a gentle, testing kiss.

Mouths parted slightly, accepting more, tasting, exploring, hungry. Aromatic spices. Bitter hops. Woodsy cologne. Palms slid up necks. Someone sighed, someone inhaled shakily.

They drew apart, eyes lifting, gazes meeting, agreeing, mouths slotting together again, venturing deeper. A shift of bodies, a step back, John's arse hitting the edge of the sink, the empty bottles clinking encouragingly.

Hot breath, the wet release of a bottom lip, Sherlock's wisp of a moan -- a soft _mmmm_ \-- and the urgency increased ten-fold.

Sherlock's long fingers splayed over John's cheek, gripping into his hair.

 _Huge paw of a hand…_ John thought hazily, loving the heavy weight of it holding his head. His tongue flicked into Sherlock’s mouth, his thumb stroking a patch of sensitive skin behind Sherlock’s ear.

_Mmmm._

A sliver of Sherlock’s brain was mildly irritated at his own uncontrollable moans, the rest was shutting down under the warm pressure of John's mouth and hands. Skilled, capable hands...

Sherlock suddenly pressed closer, their pelvises making sharp contact, breath quickening, mouths hungrily seeking more, hands roving, bottles clattering, shattering into the sink --

They started reflexively at the sound of breaking glass, heads jerking up, muscles tensing, staring at each other for cues to action. As the burst of adrenaline faded, they smiled, suddenly a bit shy.

“Well, shit,” John managed to say, breaking the awkward tension, his palms relaxing against Sherlock's shoulders, not sure if he should let go. He couldn't quite stop looking at the pinked skin around Sherlock's mouth, burned from his own rough stubble.

Sherlock briefly fixed the offending bottles with a withering gaze, then settled his eyes on John. “The sofa.”

John furrowed his brow, not understanding.

“We could move to the sofa. It’s large, comfortable… If you want.”

John smiled again, pleased Sherlock wanted to continue where they'd left off. “I want.”

With fresh intent gleaming in his eyes, John pushed away from the sink, slowly propelling them in a rambling, soft-socked waltz toward the sitting room.

They folded into the corner of the sofa, mouths delving together before their backsides even touched the leather cushions.

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock sighed into John's neck, hands smoothing over his back, taking measure of his shoulder blades beneath his pale blue shirt, “I’ll buy you dinner.”

John’s lips skimmed over a cheekbone. “Dim sum?”

“Whatever you want. Just nothing with peas.”

“And afterwards?” John teased suggestively, nuzzling Sherlock's earlobe.

Sherlock slid down against the arm of the sofa, finding himself sinking beneath John’s warm weight. His body hummed, the anticipation of hands and mouths on bare skin flashing through his mind. “Afterwards… whatever you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! Now go eat something decadent.
> 
> Me on Tumblr: [221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com](http://221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss' by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159768) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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